


The Archers Bows Are Broken

by revengeandotherdrugs



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Enjolras Has Feelings, Freeform, Kinda, M/M, Multi, Songfic, Stream of Consciousness, basically enjolras deals with being a zealot, enjolras is afraid hes going to kill everyone he loves, lots of analogies to burning, which he might
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 08:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2381777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revengeandotherdrugs/pseuds/revengeandotherdrugs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He carries a Torch but he likes setting fire and watching things burn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Archers Bows Are Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Written in under an hour so thats why its shit but I heard this song and it reminded me of Enj so i had to do something with it... please don't hate me for my crapness.

((Song can be found [here](http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=zOuDfdloP0Y)))

He burns like ice and freezes like the sun. A violent contradiction in a red coat and black boots. He ignites everything he touches; words become metal and people become an army. He burns their human  souls and turns their hearts to ash. They would follow him to the end of the earth if he asked, his misfit group, and he knows it; their blind faith as admirable as it is sad, an army of those enthralled by his light and drawn in by his biting cold. 

He carries a torch for a cause he clings to like air. He screams in favor of it with a throat rubbed raw from the smoke of his own burning soul and the cigarettes that he inhales in a blind effort to quench it. He lights fires to watch things burn and breaks bridges to watch the water carry them away. He seeks destruction just as he seeks to create a world based on an ideal. 

He thinks himself a martyr, the holy sacrifice hanging above the gates of Babylon. A man apart from humanity, apart from himself, apart from love.

Of all the things he's accused of that one hurts the most. If there is anything he knows how to do its how to love. 

He loves the color red.

He loves his first cup of coffee in the morning before work.

He loves the way the sunlight comes in through the kitchen window.

He loves his friends

He loves the way Combeferre and Courfeyrac argue over the minutiae of life and then make up with kisses and a laugh. How Feuilly goes out of his way to make sure everyone has enough because he knows how to have nothing. He loves the way Marius talks of his love and how he lights up when she smiles at him from across the room. He loves the way Joly and Boussuet share every aspect of their lives and begrudge each other nothing. He loves the long curve of Jehan's fingers around a pen as they scribble madly their next poetic masterpiece onto a napkin or the back of a hand.   

And he loves, as much as he doesn't understand, that his friends can love him when he can not love himself.

And they do. Unconditionally.

The only one who ever voices it is Grantaire; in drunken mumbles and slurred sentences that blend together into a litany of adoration and praise as he slumps at his table or against the wall or into their bed, his eyes still clear somehow even with the alcohol or perhaps in spite of it; his artists soul too strong to be drowned in liquer and his devotion to his Apollo a constant promise in his deep green eyes, 

Enjolras hates him for it. 

Hates him for his blindness and his delusion as much as for his cynicism and self destruction. Hates that Grantaire refuses to let go, refuses to save himself, refuses to see what a crazed arsonist he's professing his love for. 

He carries a torch, but he likes setting fire and watching things burn.

Someday he will forget himself, take this cause too far, burn them all. And the worst part is that they'll let him. that they'll forgive him. 

He has nightmares about that sometimes; the burnt bones of everything they had sought to build standing against a smokey sky. the frozen, twisted bodies of his friends, piled and forgotten, frostbitten skin sloughing off in charred flakes, familiar lips and knees and hands, burned blue and frozen black and bitter. Bones of familiar fingers, shins being gnawed at by rats, The eyes he loves open and unseeing,  forgiving him for the end of the world, for driving them to this, for sparking the fire and fanning it until it consumed them. The streets running red with their blood. 

He wakes screaming and Grantaire holds him tight against his chest until he stops struggling. Until the tremors settle and the stench of burning flesh leaves his nostrils, stroking his hair and humming against the top of his head. 

They return to bed, with Grantaire wrapped around his back and Enjolras lying rigid and sleepless, terrified that he'll wake up to find Grantaire gone and yet at the same time wishing that he will. Grantaire's breath is a lick of flame against the arch of his shoulder blades and he wishes he could burn himself away, 

 


End file.
